


To Kick and Scream and Not Go Softly

by disalae



Series: Rinn Hawke [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-28 04:42:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19804987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disalae/pseuds/disalae
Summary: There are three things Hawke is certain of in this world. One — she will try to save everyone, even if it kills her. Two — she can’t save everyone, even if she dies trying.Three — she will die trying.And it’s fine. It is. She just thought it would take longer than this.





	To Kick and Scream and Not Go Softly

**Author's Note:**

> For the Storytellers thread on r/dragonage; prompt was to pick a color/sense/emotion from those offered. Here, we have ice blue/sight/dizzying happiness. Bonus challenge was to do it in less than 500 words, but I clearly failed that.
> 
> Enjoy!

There are three things Hawke is certain of in this world. One — she will try to save everyone, even if it kills her. Two — she can’t save everyone, even if she dies trying.

Three — she will die trying.

And it’s fine. It is. She just thought it would take longer than this.

“We’re almost there,” Hawke hears next to her. The voice is muted, as if underwater, and she’s exactly not sure who said it, but she knows it isn’t the person carrying her. “So don’t go dying on me yet, all right? If you do, I’ll have to find a new drinking partner, and I just really don’t have the time for that.”

Hawke laughs. Means to, anyway, but instead of hearing anything she only feels a trickle of blood fall from between her lips and slide down her cheek, so maybe she doesn't. In response, the speaker squeezes her hand — at least, she thinks they do. Thing is, everything _did_ hurt before — immeasurably — but now she just feels numb. Drunk, maybe. Where was she before this, anyway…?

Before she can figure it out, things start to go dark; just before they do, Hawke thinks it’s probably for the best, all things considered, but can’t help wondering if it’s the last light she’ll see. 

Is she okay with that? Is this fine?

It is. It has to be. 

But why, then, does she feel seven years old again, afraid, crying for her father to put on the light?

For better or worse, she’s not in the dark for long.

“Hawke!” she hears someone call out, and feels a hand slapping not-so-lightly against her face to rouse her. “Don’t fall asleep. Isabela, keep her awake.”

“Wh—” Hawke begins in protest, eyes peeling open, but it comes out as little more than a useless, strangled gurgle. _Mother always did say I had a way with words._

Mother. Would she see her again, with father, at the end of all this? Carver too? Or would she be just as without them there as she is here?

Exhausted, her head rolls to the side, and she feels her hair matted and bloody under her cheek. Isabela falls into view next to her, and as if on cue the pirate begins to prattle on about the things she and Hawke are going to do after they’re out of this mess. Every so often, she asks Hawke a question so that she keeps her eyes open, even if the only response Hawke can manage is the faintest of nods. At each nod, Isabela smiles that pretty smile of hers, lined with worry

Fuck. Isabela never worries. 

Hawke feels a tear slide down her cheek as she grasps the severity of her situation, and thinks maybe she isn’t so fine with this dying business after all. 

It feels like a thousand needles in her chest when she coughs, but it clears her throat enough for her to ask, “Anders?” because, well, if he’s not here, he needs to be. 

“Love, I’m here. Don’t talk,” she hears him reassure out of sight, and her heart blossoms at the sound of it, dizzy in delighted relief. She reaches out blindly with her free hand, searching for him; finds him, and grabs at the fabric of his coat desperately. 

She's got more strength than she thinks she does, given her circumstance, and Anders lurches to her side when she pulls him towards her. She just needs to see him, that’s all. Just to be sure.

And she does. See him, that is. But it doesn’t help; he looks more worried than Isabela.

_Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck._

“Sweetheart, you have to let go,” Anders tells her, as gently as he can through the rising panic in his voice. But she doesn’t let go. Can’t. He looks away from her, to the woman at her side. “Isabela, or— or someone, I don’t care who, but you need to— she needs to let go of me, or you need to help me get out of this coat.”

Hawke can hear Isabela’s cheeky reply clear as day in her head, though surprisingly the pirate has the good grace to not say it herself.

“Okay, all right, there we go,” Isabela responds at first tersely at the call to action, then, softly, as if speaking to a child, as she begins wrenching Hawke’s fingers from where they grip tightly on Anders’ coat. When she meets with frustrating resistance, she snaps, voice sharp. “Look, Hawke, I understand you can’t keep your hands off him, but unless you’ve got your heart set on bleeding out on this table, you should probably give the man his coat back.”

Hawke drops her grip on the fabric like it’s burned her.

“Good girl,” Isabela soothes, running her hand over Hawke’s hair before it slides down to grasp at her hand again. Hawke’s other hand is being held as well — by who? She can’t find the energy to turn her head and look. 

“I just don’t,” Hawke begins, before choking on her words — or blood, maybe. Same thing, really, at this point. Another cough, another thousand needles. She tries to sound as casual as she can when she speaks: _Nice weather we’re having! Oh, by the way,_ “I don’t want to die.”

“You won’t,” she hears Anders say — nay, command — from out of sight, the storming sound of the fade woven into his words. Out of the corner of her eye Hawke sees flickers of his — _their_ — magic, twisting and weaving through torn flesh and splintered bone to make her whole again. She imagines him skin shattered and bleeding ice blue when he repeats, if not for her then perhaps himself, “You won’t.”

“Besides,” Isabela appends, “we’re not letting you off that easy. You owe all of us at least forty silver each.”

Hawke laughs, surprised she’s actually able to, and instead of blood, the only thing that spills from her mouth now is, “Because you cheat.”

“Maybe.” Isabela pats the back of her hand. It’s patronizing, and that is reassuring. “But you’re also just really bad at cards.”

Eventually, they let her sleep. 

Eventually, she wakes.

She isn’t where she was before, that’s for sure — not that she’s entirely sure exactly where she was before. But it certainly wasn’t here, in her bed, deep within the covers. Warm. And sore — Maker, is she sore — and…

Alone.

She groans and attempts to roll over, her arm preceding as a counterweight, a motion to help move her. It lands against something decidedly not the bed — something solid — and oh, maybe she isn’t alone after all.

The response to her unintended assault is an _oof_ and a playfully annoyed huff. “So that’s the thanks I get for saving your life, then?”

“Anders,” she responds, his name a sigh of relief. 

“The one and only, love.”

She attempts to continue her roll towards him, to face him, but he presses on her shoulder gently and keeps her flat on her back. Doctor’s orders. “We’re in bed,” she remarks. 

He nods. 

She half sighs, half groans. “Then please tell me I’m this sore because we did something far more fun than I think we did.”

The laugh she expects doesn’t come. Instead, the faint smile he had before drains from his expression, and he looks ten years older in an instant. “I could have lost you. We— if they hadn’t brought you in time…”

“But they did,” she counters, gaze retreating back to the ceiling. She is in no mood to be chastised. “And you haven’t.”

His sigh is ragged and his voice tight, barely restrained. “I…” he trails off, looking lost in his thoughts. She reaches over herself and grabs at what she can — the fabric of his coat. This time, he does not shake off her grip. “I don’t know what I would do if I lost you.”

He drives himself mad with these hypotheticals, and her along with him. “You won’t.” He shifts; she can tell he means to say more. Her grip on his arm tightens to still his words, and she drops her gaze to look at him. Their eyes meet; in his, love, and something darker still along with it. “You won’t.”

“You can’t—”

“Stop arguing with me,” she cuts him off, firm. Sighs, maulin. “I’m in a delicate way.”

That gets a little laugh from him, and the air lightens around them.

“Besides,” she continues on, shifting to turn on her side as he is, to face him. He does not stop her this time; the little wince she gives seems reprimand enough by the look of him. “I’m certain there are far more entertaining things we could do in this bed together.”

He raises a brow. “I thought you were in a delicate way?”

“I’m... selectively delicate.” A beat. “And anyway, wasn’t it you that said sex can be therapeutic?”

“That sounds more like Isabela,” he counters.

“That’s not what I asked.”

Wasn't it? He gives her an incredulous look. “Do you really feel up for anything besides lying here in this bed?”

Well, he’s got her there. “I’ll let you do all of the work if you like.”

“Oh, will you? How generous,” he responds with a smirk. Shakes his head, and sighs. “Well, as compelling as your offer is, I think it best you avoid jostling your insides for at least a day or two. Wouldn’t want to undo all of my hard work.”

It was worth a shot. “You’re far too responsible,” she pouts.

A real smile, at last. “One of us has to be.”

Hawke merely hums in response, nodding, as her lids grow heavy; all of a sudden, she finds herself exhausted. So, she shifts her desires to something more sedate. “Lay with me, then.”

That, it seems, he can do. 

She feels him shift towards her. His fingers, delicate, ghost across her cheekbone and push a strand of hair behind her ear, before his arm carefully drapes over her, holding her close. After a moment, his lips press against hers, soft, and when she returns the gentle kiss just as softly, he holds her closer still. She’s not entirely sure who is comforting who, but no matter; soon enough, she is drifting off once more into sleep, into the encroaching darkness, and it’s fine, it is.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading :)


End file.
